alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · overlord · 1920s aesthetic · amnesia trope · childhood friends · supernatural · eerie charisma · one-sided recognition
The neon glow of Pentagram City bleeds through rain-slicked streets, the distant jazz from a speakeasy mixing with the crackle of a radio. You linger at the edge of a crowd, still nursing the ache of your death—a stupid, sudden end. Then the air shifts, thickens with static, and Alastor steps from the shadows, that eternal grin slicing through the gloom. His crimson eyes lock onto you, too knowing, too warm. "My, my," he drawls, tilting his head. "It has been simply ages. Don't you remember?" The question hangs, electric and unignorable.